It Just Can't Be
by a.l.russo
Summary: He wants to rip the sheet off of her body and see her smiling, like it was all just a joke or a dream, but nothing real. It can't be real." Oneshot of how I think Renee should have gone. Please R&R :


A/N: Hello! This is a long-ish oneshot that I've been working on in between _Superman_; this is what I personally believe should have happened with Renee. (*gasp* *sob* RENEE!) Nope. I'm still not over that. ; ) BUT BE WARNED: This is rated T. For... er... reasons... Enjoy! ; )

R/R Because you're the bestest : )

He is standing in the hospital, barefoot, with probably multitudes of scratches on his feet, but he can't feel any of them.

"I'm sorry. There was too much arterial damage," The doctor's voice rings in his ears, and he cannot breathe. He slumps down into the uncomfortable hospital chairs, the one he's always been too familiar with, and holds his head in his hands. He's expecting another call from Chloe, but right now he could care less.

He can't help it; he sobs into his palms, uncontrollably. There is her blood on his shirt, and that makes his tears come down even harder and faster than before. There is so much pain in his chest, solely from heavy breathing and lack of air. He can't breathe. He is still in denial that this is happening.

He looks up when he hears squeaky wheels. Someone is wheeling her body, her _dead _body, covered simply by a white sheet. He stands up; he wants to rip that sheet off of her body and see her smiling, like it was all just a joke or a dream, but nothing real. It can't be real.

It just can't be.

He wakes up, then, from his nightmare. He is sweating, and gasping, like he usually is when he has that nightmare. It's been two years, Jack, he tells himself. Get over it.

Her funeral, he remembered, was terrible for him. All of CTU had shown up, each and every one of them coming over and personally giving him their condolences. Each time, he would shake his head; I'm fine, he would say.

He was looking around fervently that day, for some sign of her family. All he saw were CTU agents, and FBI agents (whom of which, he didn't know). Kim and little Teri had come to say their goodbyes and pay their respects; he sent them on their way. They didn't need to see him in this state.

"Jack," Chloe said to him, coming over and placing a hand on his shoulder. When it came to other people, Chloe was extremely awkward with physical contact. But when it came to him, she was a natural; she was like his sister.

"Chloe, I'm fine," he tells her gruffly, his eyes on her coffin. It was closed; he wished it wasn't.

But he knows that she knows better, that he is not, in fact, fine. That he is crumbling at the seams, his absolutely shattered heart peeking through.

Her family never came.

He looks at the alarm clock he has on a bedside table; 5:00 in the morning. Right as he sees it, it begins to ring, and with excessive force he hits the alarm button, silencing it. He gets out of bed slowly, rubbing his eyes and running his hand through his hair.

In his PJs, he walks over to his closet. He opens the drawer for whenever he has this nightmare, and sees the little, green box buried deep in the back.

Delicately, as if it was the most fragile thing in the world, he takes it in his hands and sits back down on the edge of his bed. He opens it up, and his heart stops, just like every other time when he opens the box.

He takes her necklace and holds it up, balancing it between his fingers. The early morning sunlight that shines rebelliously through his closed blinds catch on the precious stone and make it glimmer, it's shadow on the floor at his feet.

"We have her jewelry, sir," the doctor had told him, while he still hung around at the hospital in disbelief. All he could do was make circles, the hospital tile cold to his feet. "Were you the last one with her?"

His words shock him back into reality, and silently, he nods. The doctor hands him the bag, containing her clatter ring and her simple, gold chain with a tiny, golden basket as a charm. He had never noticed it before, not until minutes before she was shot in his apartment.

It was all they gave him at the hospital. The rest, such as her clothing, bloody and stained, was discarded. How can they do that? he had thought to himself, angrily. Just throw away someone's clothing?

He knew, for a fact, that she wore the clatter ring on her thumb. He was never sure why, but he noticed it when they were in CTU, where neither of them were running around trying to catch some bad guy who did something wrong. She was writing something, something he honestly can't recall, but it shimmered in his direction. "I like your ring," he said to her, smiling a little.

"Thanks," she responded, looking down at the ring and then back at him. "It was my dad's. I can only fit it on my thumb," She smiles at him, and continues back to her work. She was always very focused on her work, and if distracted, she would always gravitate back toward it.

He, for the first time, tries on the ring. It barely fits onto his ring finger. He takes it off quickly; it didn't feel right.

He puts her jewelry back in the box, and holds the box in his hands for a moment. Maybe he should let go, he thinks to himself. "She's been gone for two years, Jack," Chloe had told him, her six-year-old son sleeping in her arms, "Maybe you should let her go."

He, in that moment, hated Chloe. How _dare_ she suggest that? Move on? From her?

The one, true person who understood him?

But in that same moment, he admired Chloe. She was right. Things were changing. People die, and life goes on. The sun does not set any differently, the waves do not crash against the shore any softer. Everything moves on.

It should for him, too, but it doesn't.

He looks at his clock again; 6:00 A.M. He needs to go running, he thinks to himself. He walks back over to his closet, and places the tiny green box back in the drawer, and with a sigh, he grabs his jogging clothes.

He has stayed in shape, for a man his age. He jogs five miles each day, and exercises heavily. It's the one thing he can do to keep his mind going, to not let it drift off and away, like he fears it would.

As he pulls his shirt over his head, he hears a knock at his door. His eyes glance at his alarm clock; it's seven o'clock in the morning, and someone is at his door? His senses are on guard, his ears and reflexes alert.

The knock occurs again; soft and short. As he gets to the door, he slowly opens it, wondering who could be there.

When it is opened, he cannot breathe, and he feels his jaw physically drop. Two tears, rogue and rebellious, roll rapidly down his cheeks as he stares at the person facing him.

She still looks the same, yet with a darker shade of red hair. She is still insanely fit; she even has a little more muscle tone to her. Her green eyes pop even more with the new hair color, and they are staring at him gently. She breathes slowly, and she looks at him longingly. "Jack," she breathes, her eyes darting from his face to his eyes.

"What the hell," he whispers, in shock. He feels his face drain of color; he is so happy and angry at her all at once that he is unable to fully compose himself, to fully find his footing. He shakes his head. "You're not real," he whispers, "I'm dreaming, I must be dreaming,"

Slowly, she reaches out and cups his face; her hand is warm, and it makes his heart-rate increase significantly. "I'm real," she whispers to him, nodding slightly.

"What the hell," he whispers again, his jaw quivering. "Two years, Renee," he says, his voice still soft and in shock. He is shaking. He is shaking so hard that he feels it in his fingers. "You were gone for two years."

"I know," she tells him, and her hand falls back to her side, her eyes dart to the ground. When she looks up at him again, they are swimming with tears. "And it's been the hardest two years of my life."

At the sight of her tears, he lets her inside. He closes the door behind him, the click of the knob falling into place with the doorframe reminding him that this is reality, that she is real. She is standing in front of him, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Let me explain," she says, her voice shaking.

He cannot contain it; he yells at her. "Two years, Renee!" He is blowing up, the veins in his neck are popping out, he is crying, and he does not care if she sees. "I thought you were dead for two years!" His voice deflates as the knot in his throat becomes tighter. "I carried to the hospital without any shoes," He stares at her, his vision blurred from his tears. She stands near his couch, letting him rip, her mouth in a tight line and tears down her cheek.

He hasn't cried this hard since her funeral.

She inches closer to him, as if tempting fire. "I know, Jack," she says, a single tear running down her cheek. She sighs, and continues."Witness protection," she says to him, her voice slightly quivering. "I was in witness protection. They had to, Jack. The Russians still wanted me. They wanted me dead and I had to be." She is studying his face, how it is gleaming in the early-morning sunlight with tear-trails.

His anger toward her melts as he understands. "Witness protection," he muses, and falls onto his couch. With a little more grace, she sits down next to him. He turns to her, and slowly, touches her hair. It is draped around her shoulders, like he's always seen it, but never before has had an urge quite as strong as this one to touch it. He lets his fingers run through it, gently and cautiously. She closes her eyes as he does so and sighs.

"What was your name?" He asks her, so softly that it's almost inaudible.

"Cassidy O'Malley," she responds, another tear rolling down her cheek. "I was an editor, for books." She looks up at him, grabbing onto his hand that has now moved from her hair to beside him, "I didn't go out once. I hoped that they could pull me out, that I could live a normal life again," she looks down at her hand inside of his, and then back up into his adept, blue eyes. "A normal life with you, if you'll let me."

His heart stops in his chest.

He pulls her closer to him, kissing her, passionately. Her lips still feel the same as they did two years ago, delicate and firm. Her hands are on his face, warm, soft. They slide past his face and around his neck, gripping onto his back.

He places his arms around her waist, lifting her up. Their mouths are still connected; he is holding her up from underneath her legs, while they are wrapped around his waist. He can feel her in the back of his throat, he can hear her gasp for air after each time she readjusts her head.

He brings her to his bedroom, where everything just tends to blur together; she is ripping off his shirt, he is kissing her neck, taking in the scent of her subtle perfume and her coconut-smelling shampoo.

He explores her body with his mouth, but he always meets his lips back with hers. Their bodies fit like a puzzle piece; perfect, meant to be. His hands travel her thighs, her chest; every part of her he wants to remember, to study, to memorize and be able to know every part of her. He feels her fingers graze his scars on his back; he shudders, but at her smooth touch he relaxes.

She is holding onto him tightly, he feels her fingertips grip tightly onto his shoulders. It doesn't hurt, though; her nails are not long, and for a brief moment, he wonders why.

When they are done, he is on his back, her arm around her. He looks over at his clock, a brief glance, and sees that it's ten A.M.

He looks down at her, and sees that she is examining his room. "No windows," she muses, and looks up at him. "I'm sorry," she says this softly; an apology with a deeper meaning.

He shakes his head. "I moved," he told her, softly, "I couldn't have a room with windows. I just couldn't bring myself to do it," he swallows hard, and then looks down at her. For the first time in awhile, he smiles.

"What?" She whispers to him, a slow smile creeping onto her face.

"I missed you," he whispers, "and you're here, and you're alive." He kisses her, softly, their lips molding together. He can feel her smiling in their kiss.

"I love you, Jack," she tells him, staring at him intently and ever so gently all at once. He can feel his heart pounding heavy in her chest; he returns the words, and kisses her, which escalates into something more.

This is how it should have been.

Instead, he is still sitting on his bed, the tiny little green box with her jewelry still in his hands. She never came back, she never arrived at his door and said she is in witness protection. She is never coming back, she never will, he will never hold her and tell her how much she means to him.

He pulls on his jogging clothing, which consists of sweatpants and a CTU hoodie, and begins to jog around the city. It is raining, which makes it all the more convenient for him. He is crying, but nobody walking around in the New York City rain can see, mainly because they do not bother to look.

He thinks of her. He thinks of her every single goddamn day. She gave him a reason to live, to love, and now, like everyone he has ever loved in his life, she is snatched away from him in an untimely and cruel manner.

He runs to the rhythm of the rain hitting hard against the sidewalks, each pound of his foot against the concrete making his heart break a little bit more.

_I am ready,_

_I am ready,_

_I am ready I am..._

_Fine._


End file.
